The early morning air was crisp as Juri Winkler knelt beside his makeshift machine in the barn. The lantern's faint light cast shadows across the wooden beams as he worked tirelessly, his fingers blackened with grease. The tiny contraption, his first mechanical creation in this new world, moved awkwardly but reliably on its four legs, the sound of its gears a rhythmic click-click-click.
Juri's blue eyes gleamed as he adjusted a spring, watching the legs move in tandem. It wasn't perfect—far from it—but it worked. It didn't rely on magic, didn't require mana crystals or chants, and didn't falter under the weight of his expectations.
"This is only the beginning," he murmured to himself, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Later that morning, Juri walked into the village carrying the machine in his arms. The contraption was wrapped in a cloth to avoid attracting too much attention, though its size and the clinking of its gears made it impossible to hide completely.
The blacksmith's forge was bustling when Juri arrived. Men and women stood in line, waiting for repairs to their tools and equipment. The blacksmith, a burly man named Halvar, stood behind the forge, sweat dripping down his soot-covered face as he hammered a glowing piece of metal into shape.
Juri approached the forge, his presence drawing curious glances from the villagers.
"What do you want, boy?" Halvar asked without looking up, his voice gruff.
"I need scrap," Juri said simply.
Halvar paused mid-swing, glancing at the boy. "Scrap? You've already cleaned me out twice this month. What could you possibly need more for?"
Juri smirked, pulling back the cloth to reveal the machine. The villagers murmured, craning their necks to get a better look.
"What is that?" Halvar asked, his tone skeptical.
"A tool," Juri said, setting the machine on the ground. "It doesn't need magic. It doesn't even need you."
Before Halvar could respond, Juri knelt beside the machine and cranked its handle. The gears clicked into motion, and the contraption began to move, its legs carrying it awkwardly across the dirt.
The crowd gasped, stepping back as the machine clattered forward. It wasn't much—just a crude automaton designed to carry small loads—but in a world where magic dominated every aspect of life, its very existence was a shock.
Halvar frowned, crossing his arms. "It's clever, I'll give you that. But what good is a machine like this? A simple levitation spell could do the same thing faster."
Juri straightened, his sharp gaze locking onto the blacksmith. "Magic has limits," he said, his voice calm but laced with confidence. "Machines don't tire. They don't falter when their users are weak or distracted. They don't need mana. You may not see it now, but one day, machines will change everything."
Halvar grunted, clearly unimpressed. "That day isn't today. If you want more scrap, you'll need to pay for it."
Juri's smirk didn't falter. "Fine. But don't be surprised when your forge becomes obsolete."
As Juri walked away, the murmurs of the villagers followed him. Some sounded impressed, others dismissive, but Juri didn't care. He wasn't building for them. He was building for something far greater.
A week later, Juri's routine was interrupted by the arrival of a stranger.
The man appeared in the village square at midday, his arrival marked by the distinct scent of ozone and the faint hum of magical energy. He wore a long cloak of deep blue, embroidered with golden runes, and carried a staff adorned with a glowing crystal. His beard was long and white, his eyes sharp and calculating.
The villagers gathered quickly, whispering in awe and fear. Wizards rarely visited small, insignificant places like Volgrath. Their presence meant power—and trouble.
Juri watched from the edge of the crowd, his arms crossed.
"People of Volgrath," the wizard said, his voice carrying easily over the murmurs. "I am Master Kolgrim, an emissary of the Royal Academy of Magic. I have come to assess your village's magical aptitude and recruit any promising individuals."
The crowd murmured louder, excitement rippling through them. To be chosen by the Academy was the highest honor a commoner could achieve, a chance to ascend to a life of wealth and power.
Kolgrim raised his staff, the crystal atop it glowing brighter. "Step forward, one at a time. Those with sufficient mana reserves will be marked for further testing."
The villagers began forming a line, each person eager for their chance to be evaluated.
Juri stood back, watching with cold detachment. He knew better than to join them. His lack of magic wasn't just a quirk—it was a fact of his existence in this world.
Still, his sharp mind took in every detail of the test. Kolgrim's staff glowed faintly as he scanned each villager, a soft hum emanating from the crystal. Occasionally, the wizard would nod in approval, tapping someone lightly on the forehead to mark them with a glowing rune.
But as the line moved, something unexpected happened.
Kolgrim's staff began to dim, its glow flickering as though struggling to stay lit. The wizard frowned, adjusting his grip and muttering under his breath. The villagers watched anxiously, their excitement turning to confusion.
"What's wrong?" someone asked.
Kolgrim ignored the question, raising the staff higher. The crystal pulsed weakly, its light fading further.
Juri smirked from the shadows. Interesting, he thought. So even magic has its limits.
He stepped forward, his voice cutting through the tension. "Trouble with your fancy staff?"
Kolgrim turned, his sharp gaze locking onto Juri. "Who are you?"
"Just a spectator," Juri said casually. "But it seems to me that your staff isn't working properly."
Kolgrim's eyes narrowed. "It's working fine. The problem is the village's weak mana field. This place is a backwater—no wonder its magical reserves are so pitiful."
"Or maybe it's not the village," Juri said, his tone light but cutting. "Maybe the problem is you."
A hush fell over the crowd. The villagers stared at Juri, their faces pale with shock.
Kolgrim's expression darkened, his grip tightening on his staff. "Careful, boy. Magic is not something to be mocked."
Juri held his ground, his smirk widening. "Neither is progress."
For a moment, the two locked eyes—Kolgrim's burning with fury, Juri's glinting with sharp defiance.
Finally, the wizard turned away, waving his hand dismissively. "This village isn't worth my time," he muttered. "Let's move on."
The crowd parted as Kolgrim stalked toward the edge of the square, his cloak billowing behind him.
Juri watched him go, his smirk fading into a thoughtful frown.
Magic may rule this world now, he thought, but it's fragile. Flawed. It can be replaced.
That night, Juri returned to the barn with renewed determination.
The encounter with Kolgrim had only solidified his belief that magic was not the unstoppable force everyone believed it to be. If a single village's weak mana field could disrupt a powerful wizard's tools, then magic was nothing compared to the relentless precision of machines.
Juri sketched furiously, his mind racing with ideas. He needed something bigger—something stronger. The crude automaton he'd built was a proof of concept, but it wouldn't intimidate anyone.
No, he needed a machine that could rival magic itself.
The design that took shape on the parchment was ambitious: a humanoid figure with thick, jointed limbs, powered by a network of gears, pulleys, and a central crankshaft. Instead of relying on mana, it would use a combination of tension springs and combustion—a concept he remembered from his previous life.
By the time dawn broke, Juri's workbench was covered in blueprints. His hands ached, his back was stiff, and his eyes burned from lack of sleep, but he didn't care.
"This is it," he whispered, staring at the design. "This is how I'll change everything."